The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 6 A Dream that Affrightens

'Where's the meat?' Cateline asked. Her tone was brisk, not hostile; she had a pot of stew cooking.

'Just this, sorry, I was too tired and it was too dark to hunt properly.' I tossed her the two squirrels I'd managed to hit using my hunting bow. Not worth the six arrows I'd lost.

Cateline shook her head. 'Arnulf needs better.' She threw back her long, black hair and gave me a stern look as if ready to argue with me, but then thought better of it. 'Well and well, just give me a silver shilling and I'll buy a hen.'

While she was gone I attended to our horses, unstrapping the tack and grooming them as best I could with the near toothless brush that remained to me. Of course, I stayed away from the matted hairs around the wound of my stallion. It was too dark to inspect the injury closely.

Near to Arnulf, who was asleep under his trap, was the pony with our supplies and I was pleased to find that as well as plenty of oats, we still had two sheaves of long straw. Although the warhorses had been given ample opportunity to graze upon lush grass on their walk back from the small bridge, they had also fought in two battles this day. So I cut open a sheaf and shared the straw between the two horses, keeping a little back for the pony. Then, I readied the oats into feeding bags.

The relief when I unbuckled my chainmail hauberk and let it slide to the ground was divine. I'd never ached so much. Taking my cloak from my saddlebag, I wrapped myself in it and sat by our fire and its bubbling pot. All along the road were small fires and the scents of cooking meat and vegetables: carrots and parsnips had been in good supply in the stores of Devinium. The evening air was filled, too, with the sounds of human voices, though other than the far-off chants of a group of praying men, the words around me were merely indiscernible mutterings.

It seemed easier to relax if I stretched out a bit. I put my head on my piled-up chainmail and then enjoyed the feeling of my leg muscles letting go some of the strain they had suffered over the long day.

My eyes closed and although I had no intention of falling asleep, I was soon dreaming.

In the solar – the great hall – at our castle, Father was receiving letters and petitions. I was bored and wanted to be outside in the sunshine, riding with my friends. Alas, Lord Rocadamour thought it a good education for William and I to witness the proceedings.

Then the sky beyond the windows changed to a silvery grey and I knew we were now in Hades. People still continued to enter the hall, however, and speak to my father.

Shaven-headed and gaunt, Duke Shalk walked up to the dais and I grew anxious at what he might say.

'Your son abandoned me, despite his oath. He said that it was not betrayal, for he had the right to refuse my orders if they were folly. What say you Lord Rocadamour?'

Father looked across at me, sternly. 'Well, Guibert?'

I could neither make a reply, nor move. My hands were locked to the frame of my chair, though not bound in any way. My feet likewise.

'Are you dead, Shalk?' Father returned his attention to the petitioner.

'I am.'

'And my son lives?' He pondered this, before announcing his judgment. 'My son was wrong to plead diffidatio. If every vassal did so each time he thought his lord was being foolish, there would be no order in the world. But I am glad he lives and thus his punishment will be light.'

'State it.' Duke Shalk insisted.

'He will be as a squire for a month and see to my warhorse.'

Shalk bowed and walked swiftly out, not hiding his displeasure. I felt relieved and grateful to Father. Not for long, however, for horror entered the room.